


Forever and a Lifetime

by salamoonder



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 80's Music, Abusive Relationships, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Human, Anathema is a lesbian, Aziraphale is American, Bad Parenting, Big Country - Band, Chronic Illness, Consensual Non-Consent, Consensual Underage Sex, Crowley is Scottish, Exchange Student, F/F, Foster Care, Gen, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Long-Distance Relationship, Love Letters, M/M, Major Illness, Mildly Dubious Consent, Orphans, Other, Past Character Death, Past Underage Sex, Radio, Romance with a capital R, Rough Sex, Sex, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Trans Crowley, discussion of suicide, nonbinary michael
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-05-19 23:27:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19365850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salamoonder/pseuds/salamoonder
Summary: "...like the dog that howls in the night / You fill my broken heart with fright / When I touch you the whole world sighs / When you touch me the whole world cries / The longest day will be forever and a lifetime/ The longest day will try your love like none before..."Crowley is adrift. All he gets out of his exchange trip to America is a new accent to mimic, a break that he'd rather not have from his radio show, an inconvenient illness and the infuriating heartbreak that comes with leaving his best friend, Anathema. He hardly even remembers the student tasked with letting him shadow.Aziraphale is stuck. Tethered to the foster system for as long as he can meaningfully remember, he's been going through the same cycle of toxic exes, early mornings and late nights, alcohol, schoolwork and obligatory childcare. The rude, flashy, accident prone bastard of an exchange student is the most exciting thing to happen to him since Newt drunkenly insisted he was going to swim from North Carolina to Miami, and Aziraphale had to dive in after him.





	1. Just a Shadow

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually the first time I've written slow burn, and boy do I intend to let it burn. Something to keep in mind: this whole fic was heavily inspired by the music and life of Stuart Adamson. I highly recommend listening to the songs I name in each chapter and I've included links to all of them. His band was fairly popular in the 80s but never did take hold in America, or at least that's what I'm told. 
> 
> Another thing to keep in mind is that a lot of this was written before the tv show came out, and so the Michael in this fic is not the Michael from the show. There are some elements that mix tv and book canon, but by and large this is a book fic.

**PART ONE ~ THE CROSSING**

 

* * *

Crowley settles his headset over his ears and flips the microphone on, checking and double checking all his sound equipment and monitors with the care and attention of a new parent. Crisp silence streams from headset to ear until he huffs a quiet breath into the mic, creating a tiny wave of wind. He adjusts the sensitivity, tests again, hums softly, tests, settles.

Then he begins streaming.

“Good evening, listeners. This is Apocalypse Radio, your only late night source for cryptic tales, underappreciated 80s classics, and hidden modern gems. I’m Python, your host. It is precisely twelve midnight, and we’re kicking off tonight’s show with ‘Just a Shadow’ by Big Country. Enjoy.”

He tips his head back and inhales into the pure, cold air of his studio bedroom and immerses himself in the music. Anathema is late, and not for the first time this week. He’s trying to enjoy the song, but his mind keeps wandering back to her, right up until the studio door swings tentatively open and shuts with a quiet click. Anathema takes the seat next to his and jams her own headset on over her beanie. She at least has the grace to look embarrassed. Her shorts are grass stained and there’s dirt under her nails; her knees are scraped. 

“Where were you?” he hisses. He doesn’t mean it to come out as a hiss. It does anyway.

“Sorry,” she says, only sounding slightly sorry. “I was--out.”

“With Winnie?” he prompts.

Anathema pinches her lips together, but doesn’t have time to respond before the music fades out and Crowley turns their microphones back on, instantly flipping back into calm, collected host mode.

“Again, that was Big Country’s ‘Just a Shadow’ off their album Steeltown. Here in the studio with me is Gadget, who I believe is ready to help me share some stories that have been sent in by listeners?”

“That’s right,” Anathema picks up smoothly. “Looks like this week has been an...interesting one for fairy rings. Let’s look at some email submissions. Remember, you can send these in by going to…”

All was right with the world. Anathema reads out the listener submissions with dry humor and Crowley provides her with commentary ranging from the skeptical to the cautionary. When they’ve gone through the first set of listener’s submissions, Anathema introduces a playlist she’s created for the evening, and then they finally have time to properly talk.

Only Crowley just sort of stares at her, once their host personas are broken. She reaches over to smooth his hair out of his eyes, but he ducks out of the way. She huffs a frustrated sigh through her nose.

“Crowley, you know it wasn’t on  _ purpose _ ,” she says, exasperated. “You’re my best friend and always will be. I was only a couple minutes late, and it won’t happen again.”

“Yes, it will,” says Crowley, slouching cross armed in his desk chair and hating himself for sounding like a sulky teenager. Anathema groans.

“Alright, fine, it might happen again, but I’ve still never been more than a couple minutes late and I don’t commit to stuff that I can’t do, and so now can you stop acting like a spoiled child for five minutes, maybe?”

Crowley eyes her, frustrated and locked up inside and searching for words.

“God, Anathema, don’t treat me like some jealous ex lover. You know I’m not jealous. It’s. It’s not that.”

Anathema purses her lips. “Well, then, what is it?”

“It’s--” Crowley pauses. It’s what happened today. It’s...well, it’s wearing the jealousy ruse like a mask so close fitting that even he has trouble looking underneath it. It’s the elder sisterly like way that Anathema is looking at him as she tugs at the end of her braid, despite being nearly two years younger.

Especially it is that he is absolutely terrible at keeping secrets, and that the longer he does actually manage to keep a secret, the worse he feels.

“I’m...not going to be here for the summer,” he says finally, and it finally hits him, like a dulled punch to the chest, that this big empty house will be minus one Crowley, that he’ll be away from the constant green and rain and energy of Ireland. He’ll be away from Them. Finally.

He takes a deep breath, clears his throat. Glances at Anathema. She still hasn’t said anything. She’s just staring at him, eyes wide and pale blue as ever.

“I’m doing a summer exchange program so...I’ll be gone the whole summer semester. In, uh, in America. I’ve been meaning to tell you, but, well.” This is a lie. He had been meaning to keep it to the very last instant, hoping it would go away, hoping the moment would happen all by itself, maybe, so he didn’t have to go through the trouble of physically opening his mouth and telling her.

Anathema blinks at him. “You know…” she says slowly. “The middle of a broadcast is, quite possibly, the worst time to tell me this.”

Crowley looks away, drawing his knees up to his chest and scraping his overlong fingernails through his hair. Anathema pokes him in the side none too gently.

“What if I’d broken down crying or something because my big brother, my other half, my--” Crowley groans, and Anathema giggles. “What if I’d had a breakdown because I won’t have my best friend this summer?”

Her tone is full of gentle fun, but all he feels is guilt. “I don’t know,” he groans. “Sorry.”

“Were you, perhaps, the tiniest bit scared to tell me?”

“ _ No _ ,” Crowley scowls; then, a second later, “yes, I suppose.”

“Aww. It’s alright. We'll text.”

“Yeah.”

“And you’ll be coming back at the end of the summer.”

“Yeah.”

“Not like it’s forever.”

“Nope.”

“And now I won’t feel guilty about hanging out with Winnie more…”

Crowley looks up to glare at her (only half serious) and Anathema suppresses a smile. “Sorry. Joking.”

He makes a noise of assent, begins fiddling with the strings of his hoodie. Now that it’s out in the open, he sort of doesn’t know what to do with himself.

Anathema rubs a hand over his back. “Hey. Seriously though. Everything’ll be fine. And that’s exciting! God, I’d kill to get into an exchange program, you lucky bastard.”

“Genius bastard,” Crowley corrects. “This trip is happening because of a scholarship and I’m not going to let you forget it.”

Anathema rolls her eyes.

The radio show continues, rolling on comfortably until around 1:30AM, at which time Crowley and Anathema sign off and Anathema hugs Crowley goodbye before she drives home. He sits out on the steps of his oversized house and watches, trying to feel nothing, and failing miserably. He can still hear her playlist in the back of his head (mostly Camelot and The Birthday Massacre). She brings most of the variety to the show, really. Crowley is deeply mired in his “underappreciated” classic hits, unable to dredge himself out of a decade that took place before he was born. He’ll enjoy other stuff, of course, but it has to be Anathema who brings it to him. He’s never had to search out music that will suit his taste before and he’s not about to start now.

When Anathema’s car is long gone Crowley gets up off the steps and lays down in the yard, tracing the constellations he knows, making up names for the ones he doesn’t. It must be nearly 2AM by now. Not really what Crowley usually thinks of as morning, but close enough.

March 10th, exactly one year ago today, Crowley had gotten a call from the hospital. He hadn’t answered it.

He was seething mad, and he wasn’t about to pick up the phone whoever it was, least of all his mother, which was who he was expecting. So nearly the minute the phone rang again, mere minutes after it had stopped ringing, Crowley had shoved his head under his pillow and bit into his sheets, willing himself not to just pick it up and start yelling. And when the phone had rung a third time, his temper ran out.

He slid the phone icon up without even checking the caller ID, growling “what?” into the receiver.

There was a slight crackle, and then a pause. And then a professional female voice which definitely did not belong to his mother said, “I’m sorry, am I speaking to Miss….Cassandra King?”

Crowley’s throat had tightened. A sudden wave of black threatened his vision; he ignored it.

“Sorry, yes, this is she.”

The woman on the other end cleared her throat. “Ah, your parents were just admitted to the hospital. I’d suggest--”

He didn’t even give her time to finish the sentence; he was already up, throwing a coat on, out the door. He made it much too late.

One year of alone (plus Anathema). One year in the big empty house. One year od taxes and paperwork and agonizing over what apparel could be considered “professional” and still not give him away. One year of guilt, and one year of total freedom.

Crowley gets up and begins to walk. It’s very dark (there is no moon), but he knows the path well and he’s far enough into the countryside that if he encounters anything, it will be a wild animal and not a person. And he’s perfectly fine with wild animals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a Shadow: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4o_Pw-cTcO8


	2. Seven Waves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale tries to remember last night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for mentions of binge drinking and a brief drug mention.

“Alice!” whispers a small, young voice. “Alice, get UP! You’re gonna be laaaate and I’m hungry.”

Aziraphale’s eyes fly open. A rather disgruntled boy is staring at him impatiently, hair ruffled with sleep. He glances at the clock; 6:30AM. He groans and rolls over.

“Adam, dear, ten more minutes…”

“But I’m hungry. And so are Brian and Wensleydale and Pepper.”

Aziraphale lets out a sigh, kicking his comforter to the bottom of the mattress and attempting to sit up as he does. “And I suppose you woke them up too?”

Adam crosses his arms. “They would’ve been up in a few minutes anyway if I hadn’t. Alice, please?”

“I’m coming,” Aziraphale mumbles. “Let me just get dressed first.”

Adam beams and skips out of the room, and Aziraphale takes the time to dig through the clothes on his floor for the cleanest looking pair of jeans and an unstained tee shirt. He’s not even mad about Michael not being here to help out. Not really. He’s too tired to be mad.

The kids are, predictably, all in front of the television. Pepper and Brian seem to be engaged in a low stakes shoving match (it doesn’t seem to be especially harmful, so Aziraphale lets it be). Adam is lying on top of the couch back, which is not allowed, but Aziraphale lets that go as well, as he’s simply too tired to contend with Adam at the moment.

He sets out a bowl for scrambled eggs and puts the radio on soft in an attempt to wake himself up. It doesn’t particularly help, but it’s better than nothing. He tries to focus on that as he cracks the eggs into the bowl (dash of milk, swipe the shell bits out, salt, pepper, whisk). Pepper looks up long enough to notice him and beams.

“Alice, can you make cinnamon toast, too?”

“Must I?” asks Aziraphale, only half joking.

Pepper adopts her “queen” voice. “Yes, you must.”

“Mm. Only if you say please.”

“Please?”

Aziraphale smiles just a little. “Alright. Which of you wants cinnamon toast?”

There is a chorus of “me”s; Aziraphale takes four slices from the bread box and plops them in the toaster, stirring the scrambled eggs with one hand. The pan is supposed to be non stick, but he suspects that the coating is wearing off, because he’s having to scrape crispy bits off from around the edges with decidedly too much effort. He dumps the eggs onto plates, takes the toast, scrapes butter onto it, and haphazardly sprinkles sugar and cinnamon across it.

“Breakfast,” he calls as he sets the plates on the table. The four kids come rushing up and Adam makes to take his plate back to the couch to eat while they watch TV, but Aziraphale clears his throat at him pointedly. Adam rolls his eyes but sits down, and Aziraphale takes the fifth seat and props his head up with a hand to supervise his charges.

Wensleydale, who is the oldest at thirteen (going on thirty, by his mannerisms), speaks through a mouthful of egg. “Aren’t you going to eat, Aziraphale?”

“Mm?” Aziraphale asks.

“You’re not eating anything,” Wensleydale says pointedly.

Aziraphale waves him off. “I’ll eat later. You kids need breakfast.”

Wensleydale squints at him but continues eating.

The kids are blissfully silent for the next fifteen minutes or so, occupied enough between morning cartoons and food that there’s not much room for speaking. Aziraphale mostly rubs his hands over his eyes and tries to maintain consciousness. Then, the moment the kids are done eating, he shoos them off to their rooms to get changed for school and brush their teeth. He goes up to Michael’s room and knocks, just on the off chance that he’s still asleep, but there’s no answer, and when Aziraphale cracks the door open he can see that the bed is perfectly made. The rest of the room is spotless; Michael is gone, of course he is.

Aziraphale runs through each of the kid’s homework in his head, checks the spelling lists that he’s stuck to the fridge, runs through their lunch boxes one more time to make sure that they each have a sandwich, two snacks, and a full water bottle. “Kids!” he calls, and three out of the four come streaming downstairs, jostling each other and talking much too loudly for him to properly process.

“Where’s Pepper?” he asks tiredly, and the boys shrug.

“Aliiiiiice!” shrieks a voice from upstairs, as if on cue. “I need help.”

Aziraphale stomps back upstairs to Pepper’s room to find her wrestling with a hairbrush and an unwieldy amount of hair gel. He purses his lips together, trying not to laugh, and gently takes the hairbrush from her. “Turn, please?”

She turns her back to him and he begins to sweep her hair back so he can make something of a braid out of it. “Put some of the gel back, love. That’s far too much.”

Disgruntled, Pepper scrapes the majority of the hair gel back into its tub and does her best not to squirm as Aziraphale brushes the last of the tangles out of her frizzy hair, braids it deftly, and smooths a tiny bit of gel over the flyaways to keep the hair out of her eyes. Pepper wriggles away the instant he’s done and flies downstairs. He follows much more slowly.

The boys are already outside, swinging from the branches of the apple tree outside the house and looking for the bus. Aziraphale settles against the trunk, squinting up at them worriedly and feeling much older than he is.

“Don’t go too high,” he calls to them--to no avail, as Pepper also begins to climb, shimmying her way up above all three of the boys. He sighs and turns his eyes back to the road. “If you’re climbing at the same time,” he calls, changing tactics, “can you still remember your spelling words?”

“MICHIGAN.” Adam yells down. “Capital M I C H I G A N!”

Aziraphale sighs.

“E S P E S I A L-” Brian starts, but Pepper cuts him off.

“You forgot the C again.”

“Did not!”

“Did too, you clearly said ‘S’!”

“I did NO-”

“Bus is here,” Aziraphale interrupts, and watches the kids scramble down, grab their bags, and board the bus. The bus driver gives him an understanding smile, and Aziraphale waves as they pull away.

Then he goes inside, grabs his backpack, sprints into the garage, and grabs his bike. It’s gonna be a long day.

The ride to campus is hot and sticky and all over typical North Carolina summer. His bike tires kick up sand and grit and he squints along the road against the slight breeze blowing insects and dust into his eyes.

He’s still barely awake, and his head is pounding, and it’s much, much too warm.

Wait. Wait. Does he have a hangover?

Aziraphale tries to think back to last night but blanks. He can remember...the lounge at the university...angry texts from Michael...Newt showing up? Then...standing around uncomfortably in a cramped and cluttered house. The smell of weed. Ah.

When he finally gets to campus, he texts Newt.  _ What happened last night? _

A few gray dots pop up and then disappear as he’s locking his bike away. He enters the dining hall, buys a coffee, sips it morosely at one of the sticky wooden tables.

_ You really don’t remember dude? _

Aziraphale tries to contain his sarcasm.  _ Not particularly _

A second later:  _ Damn you really were blackout _

Aziraphale downs another swallow of coffee. It’s bitter and awful but he can’t be bothered to get up and add cream and sugar. Or to have asked for it in the first place. He picks up his phone to reiterate the question to Newt, but he’s already typing.  _ Bump bump bump _ little gray dots. They almost make a noise in Aziraphale’s exhausted mind.

_ You weren’t in a great way. I felt sort of bad stopping you. _

Aziraphale drops his head into his hands and groans. Apparently Newt had no concept of  _ the morning after _ .

Quickly, he types,  _ Did I do any damage? _

_ Not to anyone but yourself _ , comes the reply, disconcertingly fast. Aziraphale’s already checking himself over for bruises or cuts, but he suspects that Newt is talking about emotional damage.

At least he can’t remember it. He glances at the time on his phone; he’s already two minutes late to his first class. He grabs his coffee, slings his backpack over his shoulder, and sprints.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seven Waves: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MLy8vzgOvCo


	3. You Dreamer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Oh, you dreamer / Is this the way that you believed your life was gonna turn out? / Oh, you dreamer / Is this the better world that you were making all those plans for?"_
> 
> Crowley does some reflection and preparation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how the Irish school system works, I don't know how getting hormones in Ireland works, I apologize for any inaccuracies. Everything in here about Restless Natives and Rarities is 100% true. There is some discussion of medical transition in this chapter.

Crowley is a night owl. Always has been and always will be. So waking up at the crack of dawn after wandering the woods in the dead of night until he couldn’t tell rain from tears was...less than ideal. Still, he’s oddly awake. Oddly  _ calm _ . A feeling of stillness has coiled and settled in his chest until it overtakes him, and he feels like a blank, emotionless slate; a completely different person from the one Anathema had talked to last night.

Today is an errands day. He is picking up hormones, cutting his hair, buying warm weather clothes. Reinventing Crowley King yet again, the way he did on this day one year ago. He’s used to this; he’s done it every year since he entered the school system as a child. Crowley phased through hippie, emo, and punk, to name a few, as though he was switching from a winter wardrobe to a summer one. It wasn’t until he became Crowley that he really began to settle into himself.

Still; his image needs upkeep, and he wouldn’t be him if he didn’t change things up for America.

It helps that he passes somewhat easily these days. He feels free to walk into a barber’s shop without fear of invasive, weird questions. Clothes shopping has become infinitely easier, and his name is accepted without so much as a blink. It’s still an effort to control and deepen his voice when he’s upset, but overall Crowley has never been happier with his body.

His mind, on the other hand, is a different story.

Anathema had offered to come with him today, but he’d waved her off. He felt like being lonely for a while, even if he didn’t feel like being alone. It was something he was going to have to get used to.

He sticks earbuds into his ancient iPod classic and scrolls through his albums until he finds Restless Natives and Rarities. The soundtrack washes over him, and suddenly the stuffy department store he’d been about to walk into feels more like a forest. He has a  _ mission _ now, not an errand, not quite a quest, but something with more of a purpose.

He finds cool colored t shirts, turquoise polos and soft green baseball tees and heather gray tank tops. Neutral and forest-y. Then he expands his search into eye watering skinny jeans on the other side of the color wheel: neon orange, floral print, shimmery, glittery, showy pieces. He buys a couple of jackets as well (faux leather bombers) and a new pair of sunglasses. It is, after all, the Outer Banks. He assumes there will be a beach.

His haircut takes a whole hour and he sinks into it luxuriously, basking in praise when the barber compliments his earrings. For a long time Crowley’s been sort of neutral and dark; he’d like a shot at standing out in America. By the time he’s picked up all the little bits and pieces that he’ll eventually need for the trip, his prescription is ready to pick up. He signs and walks out of the pharmacy with a slight smile settling over his face.

He feels adult, and independent, and productive, and somewhat lonely. But that he can get used to.

As soon as he gets back in the car he plugs his iPod into the aux cord and begins playing side B of Restless Natives. It was originally written for a movie of the same name, he knows, but he can glean little else about it from the songs on the album. The first side is simply a number of songs that he assumes are featured somewhere on the soundtrack. Side B, however, is a little more interesting.

It starts out as an ambient instrumental. Crowley can faintly hear sounds of life; birds, planes, the distant chatter of people. And then the dialogue starts.

As near as he can figure, it’s between a girl and a Scottish tour guide, and they are discussing the whimsical possibility of ghost kings. The story drifts on and Crowley always loses the thread of it near the end, but he has a feeling that it’s something sad and wistful. Like discovering that someone you knew died long ago.

Crowley shakes the thought off, tries to sink into the story of the song.

The drive is long, and quiet. He thinks about calling Anathema but convinces himself that she is off with her girlfriend or otherwise occupied. Besides, what would he say? It’s not exactly as though anything had  _ happened _ on his shopping trip. And really, he should be thinking about his evening class, and his homework.

Home feels twice as empty as it did before he left. He sprawls out on the dusty floor of the front room just to feel like he’s using up some of the space, basking in the scant sunlight that streams through the floor to ceiling windows looking out over the woods and framing the fireplace.

He almost wishes that he was just another broke uni student living in a leaky, roach infested dorm cluttered with personal effects and clothing. There is hardly any Crowley in this space, hardly anything that truly belongs to him. He is a ghost in his own house.

The essay doesn’t take long to complete, and as soon as Crowley double checks his formatting and submits it he shoves his laptop away across the hardwood and lies sprawled on his back, breathing harder than is strictly necessary and trying desperately not to think about leaving.

It’s not that he’s afraid to go. It’s that he’s afraid he may never come back. One taste of a place that isn’t Ireland or Scotland or the fringes of England and, he fears, the spark of curiosity and discovery will be ignited in him and he will never want to return. He’ll drop out of university, buy a plane ticket, and vanish as though he were never there. His life will consist of rustic little restaurants, creaky old hotel rooms, road trips, mysterious encounters in dark alleyways, heritage festivals, glass bottomed boats, sunsets dyed every color of the spectrum, zoos, grouchy tour guides, and open mic nights. And he will be absolutely miserable.

There is so little tying him here already, Crowley is afraid that even so little as a week will be enough to snap the final threads of familiarity. Then he will have no home, no past, no family. He’s already gotten so used to Anathema going off with Winnie; what little will it take for him to be fine with never talking to her at all?

Crowley runs a hand through his hair, spiking it back up the way he likes it. This train of thought is leading him nowhere, and he might as well get up and go to class early, if he has nothing else to do but sit and stew in his own anxiety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You Dreamer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kEc-HpHeHpY
> 
> Restless Natives and Rarities as a whole album is quite a time investment and there will definitely be individual songs from it used later, but for anyone with the time and the desire: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=svpmBKg5cvk&list=OLAK5uy_nBDvx1iprtkRGzRVP9gSXvsr3TsED_VQ0


	4. The Selling of America

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has an interesting relationship with love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To clarify the underage tags: Aziraphale and Michael are both seventeen when they meet. This is the only chapter in which they are both under eighteen and I'd say it's semi explicit. At no point is there a 17/18 relationship.

It had started...badly.

Aziraphale must’ve been about sixteen; still a ward of the state and still under Miss Penelope’s care. It wasn’t exactly an ideal situation to begin with, and Aziraphale was a quiet, polite teenager seething and churning with knowledge and simply wishing for an opportunity to speak his piece. Penelope, however, was a woman who still seemed to subscribe to the idea to the idea that children should be seen and not heard, no matter how well read the child.

As it was Aziraphale spent a lot of time holed up in his room, reading, or hacking into the school computers. He had no particular interest in online friendships as the upkeep seemed too complicated and risky to him, but the internet by itself is an intriguing place safe from the prying eyes of his guardian and the other children at the home, all of whom seem to come and go with alarming frequency. Aziraphale seriously doubted his chances of getting adopted from the moment he went into foster care, being much older than desirable and also more expensive to adopt domestically. There was a halfhearted effort on Penelope’s part to convince him that he could still be adopted, but one look in her eyes and there was a moment where they both knew it wouldn’t happen.

He hadn’t exactly been upset. On the contrary, he’d continued with his pursuit of extensive book knowledge on subjects he was unlikely to ever find practical use. He’d continued finding odd places to hole up out of sight, continued his small collection of fidget toys, continued pocketing the odd shiny rock or seashell until there was hardly a jacket or pair of jeans that didn’t house one. And, like most teenagers, he fantasized about love.

More than anything, it was scientific curiosity that brought Aziraphale to the subject. Affection he could place; most other feelings he could place. Sexual desires, lust, all these he could place. But he could not find the connection between these and the biblical instruction that the greatest “love” was to give up your life for another. It made no sense (evolutionarily speaking), and thus it was the best argument Aziraphale had ever seen for something more than a purely scientific world--at least of the science that was currently known. Surely if the soul existed there was some sort of science of the soul.

Scientifically nonsensical or not, Aziraphale did spend a lot of time thinking about sacrifice and friendship and lust and love and relationships for someone with no practical experience. He spent a lot of time trying to sort and categorize his own thoughts and feelings, organizing them into rational and irrational, and then further breaking down the irrational into apparently reasonless, and empathetic. A lifetime of bouncing from caregiver to caregiver, of forced therapist appointments and psych evals and careful monitoring and grossly incompetent adults, had made him an extremely analytical person.

It would be a lie to say that he was not curious about the more specific aspects of a relationship. The house was no place to experiment, nor did Aziraphale have anywhere else to go, and so he ended up reading quite a number of erotic pulp fiction novels both on and offline. Some of it seemed absolutely absurd to him, anatomically or ideologically, and so there was a lot of adjacent research focused on the more practical aspects of sex and kink. Still, there was something that wikipedia and the sexplanations youtube channel was missing. Aziraphale wanted  _ practical _ knowledge.

The opportunity to gain some presented itself quite suddenly and unexpectedly in the form of a tall, severely shaped being lounging luxuriously on the front step of the house apparently waiting for him when he got off the bus. They got up slowly and crossed to Aziraphale in two smooth strides.

They had a sharp, strong boned face, but great care had been taken to soften it along the edges. Aziraphale didn’t know much about makeup, but he could tell that this person did. They wore a waistcoat, skinny jeans, glittery black nail polish and a slight smirk.

“Hello, I’m Michael.” They held out their hand formally and Aziraphale took it, somewhat bewildered and partially self conscious at his extremely plain and somewhat worn clothes.

“Nice to meet you…?” said Aziraphale, wanting to sound firm, but it came out as a question. Michael’s smirk widens.

“I’m Penelope’s nephew. She wanted me to...what was the word. Intern for her, I suppose.”

“Oh?” said Aziraphale. “How old are you?”

“Seventeen,” Michael answered promptly, and swung the door open for him. Aziraphale entered, suddenly self conscious about….basically everything.

From there a low, warm pool of tension simmered between them any time they were even remotely close. They were constantly in competition; Michael was homeschooled and intensely motivated; Aziraphale finally had someone to divulge a veritable shipload of facts and opinions on who wouldn’t dismiss him for being childish, send him to the principal’s office, or threaten to confiscate his books but would merely tussle verbally with him.

The verbal tussle quickly morphed into a physical one when, after a heated but minor argument, Michael convinced Aziraphale to sneak out of the house after the other kids and Penelope had gone to sleep. North Carolina was usually unpleasantly, stickily warm, but at night the breeze was more than enough to counteract the humidity. The yard was sandy and hidden from the road. Aziraphale can still feel, sometimes, the rough bark of a pine tree slamming into the skin of his back through his thin pajama shirt. He remembers the rough, utilitarian rage of it, the harsh breath and clinging teeth and the damp and sticky relief of it all.

It happened again, and again, mostly under cover of night but sometimes in daylight; in the small bathroom connected to Aziraphale’s room, on the beach, when they could manage it, and on one memorable occasion, the storage closet of a local library. Always, always, it is preceded and followed by the stern warning that they must be completely secret for the foreseeable future. Aziraphale agreed without much coaxing and hid the bruises and hickeys with a combination of high collared jackets and inexpertly applied makeup.

The outspoken, proper, proud part of Aziraphale chafed badly at being hidden, but he understood that it was a necessary condition of continuing his arrangement with Michael, and so he begrudgingly allowed it.

In exchange Michael allowed more and more unorthodox requests and Aziraphale’s hunger for practical knowledge was fed. Of course, there were some things that Aziraphale was not allowed to do, or that Michael would not do; they were always on top, no exceptions. And so he was not quite satisfied, but fed.

Some days he suspected it was a bit more than a hunger. Sometimes it felt more like...a need. He began to crave the feeling of being held down, of having his hair pulled, of being edged long enough and severely enough that he was nearly crying for release and unable to truly think by the time he actually got it. He liked not being filled with his own thoughts for once; liked knowing that his brain could be switched from constant whispering, chasing thoughts to sound and sensation and desire.

However, there was another strange, unintended consequence of Aziraphale and Michael’s midnight trysts. Their daytime relationship...shifts.

Initially it was the same as it ever was; constant, good natured bickering, studying, occasionally tag teaming the care of the children. And then...Aziraphale found himself wanting to do the softer things that were never a part of their relationship to begin with; casual forehead kisses on the rare occasions that they wake up sleeping beside each other, an arm slung over their shoulder at the cheap fast food chains that Penelope takes them and the other kids to when she’s too tired to make dinner, little pet names that Aziraphale is fairly certain Michael would retch at. At first he tries to hold back, to preserve the intensely sexual relationship that they have, but it doesn’t feel right anymore.

So he started small. One afternoon near the end of the school year, when Michael was sitting on the front step waiting for him as he’d done every day since the first, Aziraphale had greeted him with a quick kiss on the cheek.

The reaction was immediate and alarming. “What are you  _ doing _ ?” Michael hissed. “Not here. Jesus.”

“Sorry,” Aziraphale mumbled, and for a couple weeks they settled into the same old pattern. Then Aziraphale’s hatred of remaining silent kicked in. They were in bed, post orgasm, when he brought it up. Even then he was timid about it. Shy.

“Michael?” he whispers.

“Nnng. What.” Michael muttered, already halfway to sleep.

“I was thinking...you’ve been here a while. And I really don’t think your aunt would mind, I mean, we’re both practically adults, and…” Aziraphale swallowed. Michael had rolled onto their side slowly, propped themself on an elbow, and begun to stare at Aziraphale rather intensely. “Well,” he said, and then paused.

“Go on,” said Michael silkily.

“I--I thought, well, is there really any point in keeping this... _ us _ ...secret?”

Michael was silent for a moment. Aziraphale tried to make out their expression, but it was dark in the room and the night was moonless. He could see the elegant curve of their nose, the barest silhouette of their eyelashes. And for some reason, he was incredibly afraid.

“Mm,” said Michael eventually. “If we’re still together by...let’s say, my birthday? We can announce it then.”

Aziraphale wanted to ask  _ why _ , what purpose was served by a delay, but Michael’s birthday was only in a few months, and he was certain that they could last until then. Besides, it seemed like asking for trouble, questioning Michael further.

“Okay,” he said meekly. “Your birthday’s good.”

“Good,” said Michael, rolled over, and abruptly fell asleep. Aziraphale stared up at the ceiling for hours afterwards, uncomfortably awake, acutely aware of Michael’s body lying next to his, of the heat it gave off. The next morning, he could still feel the heat burning through him, though the bed was empty when he woke up. That heat stayed with him for weeks and weeks afterwards. Eventually Aziraphale recognized it as the heat of a fuse, creeping closer and closer to its target. He and Michael began to drift apart--not sexually, but in friendship. Michael was no longer waiting for him when he came home from school; nor did they sit at the kitchen table and pick apart philosophical arguments with each other. Aziraphale found himself desperately clinging to their stolen, dark moments; found himself holding on more to the scent of Michael’s hair and the gleam of their eyes that the thrill of climax.

“What’s  _ wrong _ with you?” asked Michael after one session. Aziraphale didn’t think there was anything wrong with him, in particular, but he had been somewhat...distracted.

“Nothing,” he said, unconvincingly. “We can go again,” he added, although he was tired. Michael waved a hand dismissively.

“No, I think we can call it a night,” they said. They’d begun to walk off--in the direction of the beach.

“Michael?” asked Aziraphale, bewildered, but they had just kept walking.

Three weeks before Michael’s birthday, there was...an incident. Aziraphale came home to a mostly empty house. Penelope must’ve taken the younger kids out. Still, there was no sign of Michael. Aziraphale shrugged it off, feeling ashamed and relieved that he didn’t want Michael near him right at that second.

When he got upstairs, though, Michael was sitting on his bed--not sprawled out like the start of a bad porn or a celebrity photo shoot but sitting up properly, hands folded in their lap. If he didn’t know better, he almost would’ve said that Michael looked...nervous.

“Is...is something wrong?” Aziraphale asked, dumping his backpack on the floor. He hardly knew what else to say.

“Wrong?” asked Michael, head jerking up. “No, no. But.” He took a deep breath, and locked his eyes on Aziraphale’s. “I do have something to tell you.”

“Okay…” said Aziraphale slowly, and sat down next to him. “What is it?”

Michael turned to face him, their face makeup free for once, eyes piercing, gaze even. “There’s  a dance,” they said. “A...formal. Put on by the city.”

Aziraphale nodded. He’d seen the posters downtown. It happened every year. He had never gone, of course, he had few friends at school and there’d never seemed to be much point.

Michael cleared their throat. “I’d like you to go with me,” they said, and took both of Aziraphale’s hands.

Aziraphale physically felt his eyes widen. “Really?” he asked. “You mean it?”

Michael smiled warmly. “Of course,” they said warmly, and leaned in to kiss him.

The kiss was unlike anything Aziraphale had ever shared with Michael before; everything prior had been desperate and heated and aggressive, a struggle for dominance fought with teeth and tongues. This, though...this was soft and lingering, and almost...tender. It was hard to describe anything that Michael did as tender, but this...this Aziraphale was sure would qualify.

When they pulled back, Aziraphale was out of breath, and Michael was already leaving the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Selling of America: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8hDKRtZZ3so


End file.
